The Pelican Bride

by Beth White

  Cold fingers traced the back of Geneviève’s neck. There was a very specific threat beneath those words. “What do you mean?”

  Dufresne flicked the handkerchief against the sleeve of his uniform coat. “I think you understand me. His Majesty the King may perhaps not be the best model of marital fidelity, but he has been very clear about the fate of his subjects who dare to stray from the Holy Roman Church.” He gave her a malicious glance and went back to dusting his sleeve. Whick. Whick. “He takes a very dim view of spiritual unfaithfulness.”

  Her mind took the leap. He knew. Aimée had betrayed her, betrayed them both.

  They had been three days making their way—painful, limping mile by mile—in a southwesterly direction from the outskirts of the Koasati village back to the Apalachee. Nika, weary and sick at heart, anxious for Bright Tongue and anxious for the safety of her children, had refused to linger where they were, despite her companion’s wish to wait for his brother to find them. They had wasted half a day arguing, Nika insistent that it was dangerous to expose themselves to the enemy, who were more likely to remain in the area than was Tristan Lanier.

  In the end, Mah-Kah-Twah sent her on a roundabout course back to the scene of the attack to look for signs of disturbance. “We can’t leave the bodies there, especially the priest. They should be decently buried. Can you do that, Nika? Will you do it for me?”

  Unable to resist the pleading dark eyes, shadowed with pain because of her husband’s cruelty, she had reluctantly nodded. “Though I think it is a waste of time. We should go to my family in the Kaskaskia. You would be safe there, and our medicine men would heal you.” Besides, she still had a message to deliver.

  Apparently satisfied that she would obey him, he lay back. “Good. And look for any papers left on the dead. The priest has a book—a journal he kept, with drawings and such. I want it.”

  She couldn’t see what good a few religious pictures would be, but she agreed and left him in a restless sleep.

  By the time she arrived at the dead campsite, the bodies had begun to decompose, and the stench was terrible. The Alabama way of burning their dead was much cleaner and more efficient. But she had promised, so she waited nearly an hour to make sure she was alone in the forest and then began the work of digging a grave for the priest. She chose a soft, sandy area, far enough from the water to be safe from floods, and went to work with an improvised shovel made from a trencher she found in one of the soldier’s packs.

  It was nearly dark before the grave was prepared, and she was so tired she longed to simply lie down in it and go to sleep. But the thought of her children and the injured Frenchman made her grimly search the black robe’s stiff body before rolling it into the shallow grave. There were no papers on the body, but when she riffled through a leather satchel nearby, she found the book that Mah-Kah-Twah had mentioned. It was about the size of a man’s hand, leather-bound with fine parchment pages that made a crinkling sound when she flipped them. The writing was small and crabbed, blotted with ink here and there. Every few pages she found delightful charcoal drawings of animal and plant life of the forest and the river. Fascinated, she wanted to sit and look at them, but she had already been too long away from Mah-Kah-Twah. They would look at them together on the morrow.

  She put the book back into the satchel, then slung it onto her back and took a last look around the campsite. She had done her best, and with that she would have to be satisfied.

  Please, God, my boys . . .

  Now, she stumbled through the woods with Mah-Kah-Twah leaning heavily upon her, his good arm draped across her shoulders. His fever had soared again once they started traveling, but he refused to stop longer than a few minutes at a time, to take a sip of water from her canteen. She thanked God that she had begun to recognize trail markings that were less than a mile outside the Apalachee village. The Frenchman would not have made it a step further.

  That was how she made herself think of him now. The Frenchman. Not my lover, not my children’s father, not even my enemy—all those terms were too personal. Even the sound of his name on her tongue—the name the Kaskaskians had given him, as well as his French name—turned him from the silent, pitiful wraith who depended upon her for sustenance and bodily support, into the handsome, virile, laughing young man who had stolen her maiden heart.

  Azalea had warned her, and it was so. Her childhood friend was not going to be happy to see this particular Frenchman again.

  But she could not leave him in the woods to die. And he would die without her.

  One of her weary feet caught on a hidden vine, and she staggered. Her companion’s weak body overset her balance, and they both went down, she to her knees and he falling on his side with a groan of pain.

  “Mah-Kah-Twah!” she cried, reaching for him too late.

  “It’s—I’m all right,” he said between his teeth. “I just need—water.”

  She touched his face, and indeed his lips were dry and cracked. His skin had taken on a chalky pallor, his eyes sunken and the cheekbones prominent as knife blades above his fine beard. She uncorked the canteen, glad she had refilled it at the last stream they crossed. Slipping her hand beneath his head and holding the gourd to his lips, she let him sip slowly, careful to see that he didn’t choke.

  “Thank you.” He turned his head and opened his eyes to scan the canopy of trees overhead. He looked puzzled. “It’s getting dark already.”

  “Yes, we’ve been traveling all day.” She gently laid his head down and corked the canteen. “We’re slowing down, but I don’t want you to fall again. Maybe we should camp for the night and go into the village in the morning.” His confusion worried her.

  “I know you want to see your boys. You go ahead. I’ll get up in a minute and follow you.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t move by yourself.”

  “Nika.” He swallowed, met her eyes. “Why did you do this? Why did you come for me?”

  Over the last four days she had repeatedly asked herself that question. She shrugged and looked away. “If you do not know, then you don’t deserve to know.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’ve been a monumental fool.”

  “That is also true.” She couldn’t keep her lips from quirking.

  His chuckle broke her heart because it was so beloved.

  But, God, I will not do the wrong thing. I am not free. I am Mitannu’s woman. “When you left me,” she said, “I walked into the river, meaning never to come back. But my friend Azalea found me drifting there and pulled me back to shore.”

  “Nika! Why would you do such a thing?”

  She sighed. “I was ashamed. The women of my village are not promiscuous.”

  He caught her hand and kissed her palm. “I hadn’t told anyone. No one would have known.”

  She snatched her hand away. Was there no end to this man’s stupidity? “Mah-Kah-Twah, in a few months everyone would have known.”

  “What—what do you mean?” He sat up, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Nika, what do you mean?”

  “My father sent for Mitannu. Our mothers are cousins and had talked of the marriage since we were children. He agreed to marry me and take me to the Mobile village.” She lifted her hands and faced him. “I had no choice.”

  If she had picked up a musket and shot him herself, he couldn’t have looked more stunned. “How old are your boys?”

  “They will be five in November.”

  “Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus.”

  Geneviève’s head was splitting. The ball had been going for three hours now and she still had no idea what to do about Julien Dufresne’s blatant blackmail.

  As she accepted a cup of weakened punch from Paul Loisel, who had danced more often upon her toes than the floor of the barn, her mind skittered from one possibility to the other.

  If she were on her own, she might have spiked Dufresne’s guns by openly proclaiming her Reformed fai
th and bearing the consequences. True enough, this was a Catholic colony, where her beliefs were against the law, but few indeed seemed aware that there was a religious civil war going on in the mother country. Even sour Father Henri would probably be reluctant to sentence to death one of the few women in the fledgling colony.

  But what if Aimée were punished for her sister’s illegal religion?

  “I saw Burelle’s kitchen when I was setting the locks on the tavern door, mademoiselle—I mean, madame.” Loisel quaffed his punch, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You would find my new brick chimney draws much more evenly than his.” He looked at her hopefully. “Perhaps you’d like to come and inspect it on the morrow to give it your opinion.”

  “Give my opinion?” Geneviève blinked at the locksmith, only vaguely aware of the subject under discussion. “I’m sure it’s—lovely.” Dufresne might be a decent husband for Aimée, as long as he got what he wanted. But the moment he was thwarted, he was the sort of man to make her pay in a hundred painful ways.

  “Lovely?” Loisel scratched his bearded chin. “I suppose a professional baker like you would prefer real bricks to wattle. Élisabeth never got a chance to use it,” he added sadly. “She died so soon after the wedding.”

  Geneviève opened her mouth, but could not think what to say. How had they come to be talking about chimneys and bricks and Loisel’s deceased wife, all in one breath?

  He flushed bright red. “Please forgive me, mademois—madame! Alexandre warned me not to address you so soon, and he said above all I must not mention my first wife.”

  Wildly she realized several things at once. Loisel had been courting her, and he either did not know or didn’t care that she had recently married—but then he seemed to understand that she must be addressed as a married woman.

  She inhaled deeply and slowly, using the time to regain her wits. “Monsieur Loisel,” she said as gently as she could, “you must feel free to speak to me of Élisabeth any time you wish—after all, she was my good friend, and I miss her too.” Perhaps more than he did, it seemed. “But Monsieur Alexandre is mistaken. You must not address me as anything other than a friend—ever. Surely you know that I wed Tristan Lanier nearly a month ago.”

  A mulish expression crept into his confusion. “Well, but everyone knows Lanier is ineligible to wed one of His Majesty’s brides. He is expatriate. Many men would not want you after—Well, but I’m not one for such quibbling. Besides, we all know Lanier is not likely to return from the expedition to the savages.” He straightened proudly. “I only wish you to consider my suit before others you may receive. I would make you very happy.”

  Geneviève could see that she wasn’t going to win this particular argument. It did not matter anyway. If Tristan never returned, it would take more than a fine house and a smokeless chimney to make her happy. “I shall consider what you have said,” she said and curtseyed to Loisel. “Please excuse me. I must speak to Commissioner La Salle.”

  Her plan had developed over the last fortnight, heading toward this gathering when she knew that all the players would be in the same room. Tonight or never. Bienville’s ultimatum had made it imperative.

  She made her way through the press, aiming for the scrivener and his wife.

  Her father had impressed upon her that a liar would always eventually catch himself, forgetting some detail, plowing deeper and deeper until the lie turned into a trap. She had observed Dufresne’s secretive behavior, his self-centered interaction with others, his half-truths, his tendency to disappear into dark corners and emerge with no warning. Even his sideways manner of carrying himself proclaimed the habitual sneak.

  The day of their trip to the Indian village she became convinced the man maintained some hold over Bienville himself—and possibly the Mobilian chieftains. If there were a connection between the two, it would be in Dufresne’s management of the warehouse and its supplies. While she and Nika had discussed corn and cooking techniques, Dufresne had met with Mitannu, Nika’s husband and the son of the chief. During the return to the settlement, Dufresne had seemed almost giddy. Of course he had not let down his guard enough to give her details. But clearly he was pleased to have settled some advantageous business arrangement.

  “Pardon me,” she mumbled as she bumped someone’s elbow while she edged through the crowd by the open barn door, the sole source of fresh air. Peripherally she could see the fire of Dufresne’s red hair as he headed toward the corner where her sister held court with Françoise Dubonnier. She hesitated. How much damage could he do in the next few minutes while she engaged La Salle?

  Suddenly the crowd pushed against her, shoving her backward into the barn, as if a bull had charged into the building. Women screamed against the roar of men’s voices, and Geneviève staggered and would have fallen except for the press of bodies about her. She couldn’t see over the tall men between her and the door, but silence fell like a cloak.

  Then labored breathing and a grunt of pain as a body hit the ground. And gasps from those near the door.

  Geneviève shouldered her way through the crowd, toward the source of excitement. Something told her she must get there to help. Finally she broke free.

  Surgeon-Major Barraud lay crumpled on the floor, and she would have assumed him to be drunken, as he was wont to be on a Saturday evening—but for the dirty and bloody state of his uniform. He lay on his side with his right arm cradled against his body. Eyes closed, skin ashen, his breath came in shallow gasps.

  Geneviève was the first to react. She fell to her knees. “He’s hurt. Someone bring clean water and towels.” She looked around at the gaping, petrified ring of faces and snapped, “Hurry!” She turned back to Barraud and gently touched his face, afraid to move him. “Monsieur Barraud, where are you hurt? What happened?”

  “Must see—” he paused for a gasp of air and licked dry lips—“must see the commander. They said he would be here.”

  She looked over her shoulder and found Paul Loisel standing by gawking. “You heard him! Find Commander Bienville immediately.” She leaned over Barraud to examine his injured limb. If she hadn’t already been sick with dread, the state of his uniform would have completed her discomfiture. His entire right side was soaked with blood from collar to the wrist, the sleeve packed into a deep cut at the shoulder. She looked around for the closest uniform and found, improbably, Denis Lefleur. He was squatting close, waiting for her command. Relieved, she met his eyes. “We’ll need to move him to the infirmary. Find Madame and ask for a blanket to make a stretcher.”

  Lafleur grunted agreement and rose.

  She turned back to the injured man. “The commander is coming. Can you tell me what happened? Where is the rest of the party?”

  Barraud had begun to shiver, great racking shudders that seemed to magnify his pain. He groaned and curled tighter into himself. “Dead. They’re all dead—Indians—” He fainted. His body relaxed and rolled face up, revealing a gaping cut at least three inches deep into his shoulder.

  Dead? Tristan was dead? Father Mathieu too?

  Numb, she looked up as Bienville shoved through the crowd. They stared at one another, the horror on his face reflecting her own.

  Not Tristan. It could not be true.

  “Please, Azalea, you cannot turn us away!” Nika was ashamed to find herself reduced to begging shelter from her oldest friend, but what choice did she have? Mah-Kah-Twah could go no farther in his weakened condition, and where else could she be certain of her children’s safety?

  She and the Frenchman had made the last difficult mile into the Apalachee village, arriving in the still hours of the night. Nika had scratched upon the door of Azalea’s husband’s hogan, fortunately rousing only the light-sleeping Azalea, who had ducked outside without protest. But discovering Nika was accompanied by a feverish and weak Frenchman—the Frenchman who had selfishly caused her friend’s need for the doubtful protection of the brutish Mitannu—she had folded her arms and refused to let them in.

  Even
in the moonless darkness, Azalea’s frozen disapproval was palpable. “You will bring murder and rape upon us all. I could understand your weakness for the white boy when you were a child, but to bring him here now—you, a married woman, whose husband will rightly pursue you and punish your unfaithfulness!”

  “I have not been unfaithful!” Nika bent her head, hot tears breaking past the barrier of her self-control. Perhaps her marriage had been an unfaithfulness in itself—a wicked attempt to cover up one sin by committing another. But Bright Tongue had deserted her, her frightened young heart had insisted. What if her baby should suffer the taint of her promiscuity? How could she have foreseen Mitannu’s brutality? How could she have known what pain awaited her with Mah-Kah-Twah’s sudden reappearance?

  “Don’t—don’t turn the children away because of me.” Mah-Kah-Twah’s hoarse whisper penetrated Azalea’s cold silence. He had slumped against the side of the hogan, a boneless form in the dark. “Nika has done nothing wrong. If you’ll give us shelter for the rest of the night, I’ll be on my way at dawn.”

  “Where will you go?” Azalea asked. Her voice dripped suspicion. “What will I do if Mitannu follows you here?”

  “He might,” Mah-Kah-Twah admitted. “But he doesn’t know Nika was with me. You can tell him I passed through two days ago. That I’m already back at the fort.”

  The slurred weakness of his voice frightened Nika. “You’ll never make it that far by yourself. I’m going with you.”

  “No . . . ”

  Nika, falling to her knees beside him, knew with despair that he had fainted again. She looked up, searching for her friend’s face in the stygian darkness. “Please, Azalea. Please help us.”

  There was a long silence during which Nika prayed—a halting, desperate supplication that barely formed words.

  At last Azalea moved away from the door of the hogan. “If he brings harm to my family, I will kill him myself.”